


Live and Let Die

by icanthinkofausername, icarusty (icanthinkofausername)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Boarding School, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, I'll edit it, Long, M/M, Protective James Bond, Q is a Brat (James Bond), Q is not a Damsel in Distress (James Bond), Slow Burn, The gay in this fic I swear, idk how to tag, so much gay, sorry if there are, that's all the characters I think, there might be more
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icanthinkofausername/pseuds/icanthinkofausername, https://archiveofourown.org/users/icanthinkofausername/pseuds/icarusty
Summary: Q is the new student at Mirbrook Boarding School for Troubled Children and James has been there for years. Both have curiosity, secrets, and enemies.(listen just trust me I suck at summaries, this is some of my most fun writing, and it's a boarding school au that's basically it)
Relationships: James Bond & Q, James Bond/Q
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

Q was too smart for this. That was what his dad had told him. 

_ Dammit, Oliver! You’re too smart for this.  _

The judge had said it too, when she’d looked over his transcript, his extracurriculars, all his accomplishments. 

_ You’re too smart for Juvy, son. I wouldn’t do that to you. Not with a future like this.  _

Maybe that was the problem. He was too smart, too smart and too bored with the world to make anything useful of it. What else was he going to do with his considerable wit? Painstakingly write out the work for maths problems he could do in his head? Answer questions on books he could quote entire chapters from? If being smart made everything else boring, Q would rather have been boring and have everything else be interesting. Q sighed and stared out of the window, watching the low trees whip by, a criss-crossing of dark branches against a purple-grey sky as the taxi cluttered along a decrepit road. The driver had been hesitant, when Q’s father had shoved him into the car and given him the money. He’d told the cab driver, in short, clipped, tones where to take his son. The driver, before speeding out of London, had looked at Q in the dash mirror. 

“Shouldn’t your parents be the ones taking you to a place like that?” he asked. His eyes were a warm brown, like the rest of his skin, and they were worried and kind. 

“Think about it. If my parents cared about how I arrived at Mirbrook, they wouldn’t be sending me there, now would they.” Q’s tone was unnecessarily condescending, but some days he just couldn’t help himself. Today was definitely one of them. His glowering mood had started in the morning, a dreary day that dripped misty rain on his windows as he shoved possessions into a backpack, vaguely contemplating running. He’d been told his laptop would be shipped to him after a month at Mirbrook, adding to the three months he’d already been without it. That was part of the reason he’d elected to leave for Mirbrook a week early. He felt that ache in his brain, to finally put the code he’d been scribbling into his notebook into a computer, and the earlier he got there the earlier they’d let him have his precious laptop back. 

Mirbrook was supposed to have a computer lab, but Q was skeptical that it would be capable of much besides the Google snake game, certainly not to the level Q had tricked out his laptop. Everything else at the boarding school was frighteningly old, according to the catalogue. They’d said it like being ancient was some sort of asset, when really all it did was make Q internally groan. He could imagine the old bones of the school groaning in pain, like an elderly woman he’d have to explain cobol and javascript to. That was okay. Q was good at teaching people things. Maybe too good. That had, in fact, been why he’d been caught. He’d taught the wrong person the wrong thing. 

They suddenly broke through the sea-blown coastal trees and Mirbrook was looming ahead, a stark building against a sunset background. Q straightened in his seat, watching the surprisingly close cobblestones loom even closer. Like a future he couldn’t avoid. Q swallowed, mouth suddenly dry as he clutched his backpack straps with white knuckles. He’d been all sharp words and matter-of-factness that morning, even as his father had scorned him and shoved him in the cab. Now his knobby knees wobbled and that uncaring dismissal was gone. He just had no idea what it was  _ like  _ in there. It had been described as a sort of half-prison, half-school environment, a place where the troublemakers too guilty for normalcy and too innocent for juvy went, ages 13-18. There were a variety of reasons why someone could be sent to Mirbrook, unproven misdemeanors, just bad attitude, been sent to juvy once and needed more discipline… Q was none of those things, he thought, and yet Mirbrook loomed even closer. 

When they pulled up, Q could hear the spray even through the window. The pay for the taxi was quite a lot of money, just because the drive had been an hour out. He’d prepared for that, but his fingers shook slightly as he doled out the appropriate amount into the man’s hand. It felt like leaving something behind. The taxi driver looked a little concerned as Q stared out of the window, afraid to leave the warm safety of the cab. But he didn’t say anything, just turned back to the wheel and waited for Q to leave, tapping his thumb uncertainly on the leather. 

Q took a deep breath and put on what his mother called his brave face. It was more of a mask, a cold demeanor that made people leave him alone. Smiling a thin smile at the driver, he grabbed the door handle and shoved it open, climbing half out. “Thank you,” he said politely, over his shoulder. He didn’t give the bearded man a chance to reply, slamming the door as he opened his mouth. 

Q shivered in the misty rain, suddenly smelling and tasting the salt. After a pause, the taxi started up and drove away, puttering petrol. There was a panicked lurch in Q’s gut as he watched the taillights fade into the mist, but he shoved it deep and started towards the entrance. The doors were made of a dark wood which had been carved intricately once but now was reduced to a vague pattern and a texture like petrified wood. They were large, about a meter taller than Q, and slick to the touch. He wondered idly how long the doors would last against the surf and swamp-rain. He also wondered if he should knock before deducing that the wood was likely too thick for anyone to hear anyway, and even if they did the roar of the surf had probably desensitized them to pounding noises. Q tried to open the door, hesitantly and then with greater force as it resisted. 

Eventually it creaked open and Q was assaulted by a wave of hot air. He shivered with relief. His windbreaker had done virtually nothing against the wetness and his heavy coat was shoved deep into his backpack. Q stepped onto a wooden floor, dripping slightly, before his boots reached the carpet. The entrance hall was very long, and probably would have been decently wide without the glass cases shoved against the wall on either side. Q saw trophies and plaques through the shiny glass, though most of them were old and rusted. A woman sat at a desk at the end of the hall, writing furiously at something behind the rise of the counter. The hall ended in a T shape with three doors behind her and a hallway to either side. Q stepped forward hesitantly, and in doing so the door slammed shut behind him, making his grey windbreaker flutter. The woman’s eyes snapped up, grey things that he felt across the room. He would have expected her to smile, but she did not, even as she rose. “Hello,” she said, her voice warmer than her face. “You must be…”

“Oliver,” finished Q, the word bitter in his mouth. Better he would have to say it than someone else, though. “Quartermaine.” 

The woman, still standing, looked down below where Q could see. He heard papers flipping in that long, echoing hall. He started forward, hesitated, and walked the rest of the way.  _ Better to be bold. _

“Ah, yes,” she said. “Oliver.” He winced.

“Call me Q,” he said, reaching the mahogany desk. “Please. I like it better.”

She raised a brow, before snatching a pencil and scribbling it into what he assumed was his file. “Q. How would you spell that?”

“Just the letter, though I suppose you could do it q-u-e. Or even q-u-e-u-e if you like,” Q said helpfully. He kept his friendly voice on, the amicable tone he used with adults and teachers. Somehow, though, the woman’s grey eyes flicking up to his seemed to see right through him. Maybe it was the way he was clutching his backpack so tight. Or maybe the woman just saw a lot of broken kids. 

She stuck her hand out, over the desk. “Mrs. Malphrus-Mastandrea. Mrs. M to almost everyone,” she said, and now the edges of her eyes seemed to crinkle slightly, probably her version of a welcoming smile. 

Q took her hand, shaking once firmly. He thought for a little, eyes going up and to the right. “Mrs. Malphrus-Mastandrea,” he repeated slowly, to himself, and he thought Mrs. M’s mouth quirked up in a half-smile of surprise before he looked back and she had composed herself. 

“Your legal guardian was supposed to…” she started.

“Oh!” Q exclaimed, digging through one of his pockets. “Yes. Almost forgot, thank you.” He pulled out two folded pieces of paper containing all the legal information required to let him stay there. His father had shoved it in with the money for the taxi, growling a warning about how Q better not lose it. Mrs. M looked through it, brisk fingers running down the paragraphs. She nodded to herself, placing the papers on top of the file. 

“Good,” she muttered, before collecting her file and waving him down the left hall. “Welcome to Mirbrook.” Q followed obediently, the tall ceilings and dark atmosphere making him shiver and clutch his rain-damp windbreaker closer. “I’ll show you to your room first. Have you had supper yet?”

Q hadn’t, but he wasn’t hungry. “Yes,” he lied. 

“Good. Then after you get somewhat settled you’ll get to meet the other early arrivals. They’re in the common room, I think. They like to gather there to play games and such.” Q had little interest in the other inmates of the boarding school, but he supposed socializing a little would keep him from getting beat up. And games would keep him entertained until his laptop arrived. That and his projects, sequestered away in his backpack. 

They passed classrooms with numbers on the walls, past closets and up stairs until they got to an exceptionally long hallway with doors on either side. “Let’s see…” murmured M, back to Q. He could tell she was looking through the file in her hand. Q’s file. He didn’t like that, having a file. His curiosity was fueling an urge to snatch it, but he didn’t.

“Ah. You’re in Room 017. You’ll be getting a roommate, but we’re still getting emergency applications so it hasn’t been finalized yet. I can guarantee your roommate won’t be here yet, however. There’s only been 14 arrivals, not counting yourself.” Q nodded, though Mrs. M couldn’t see. She walked a little forward, looking at the numbers on the rooms. She stopped at 017. “Here.” 

Q opened the door and was vaguely surprised. The room had one window, directly ahead of the door, half-shaded by thick red curtains. There were oil lamps on either side, along with two beds shoved into the corners of the room. All things considered, it was nice. The beds were covered by comfy-looking blankets, there was a squishy wool carpet on the floor, and a shelf above each bed to put his stuff. Not that Q had much stuff, but it would be a perfect place to store his computer and his projects when school started. Q shucked off his backpack and threw it above one of the beds. After a second thought, he stood on his tiptoes to rifle through it, looking for his notebook. When he found it, he turned back to Mrs. M, who nodded curtly.

They proceeded silently out of the room, heading back the way they’d come. They passed by the entrance hall through the other door and past other rows of classrooms. There was a winding staircase that had Q huffing and puffing, but Mrs. M didn’t seem to be even winded. When they got to the top, there was another wide hallway, and they paused outside of a door. “Now, Q…” she started. 

“Yes?”

“I’ve read your charges, young man. You’re not what we typically get, down here. Brutes. Poor kids who don’t know what to do with themselves.” There was a strange, slightly wary tone to her voice that had Q listening in closely. “My advice to you: don’t let them intimidate you, and don’t be timid or afraid. They’re going to try to…” she struggled for words “inspect you.”

“I don’t understand,” Q said, brow furrowing. 

She took a slight pause. “The early ones, they’re a little sharper than the rest. They like to see what they can figure out about the new people. Like a game, to them.”

“Right. So just don’t play the game,” Q surmised. “Or if I do, cheat.”

Mrs. M seemed to smile, just a tiny crinkling of her lined face. “I think you’ll fit right in here, Q.”

Q wasn’t entirely sure that was a good thing. He clutched his notebook closer as Mrs. M opened the heavy wooden door, light spilling into the drab hallway. There was a fire crackling in the room, a warm glow illuminating the many mismatched couches and chairs arranged haphazardly around the room. There were various people lounging on those couches and chairs, laughing and talking, cards and dice in their hands. Q saw some kids reading quietly, or various clusters of confidential whisperers, but most everyone lay in the center circle-shape. Q gave a short nod to Mrs. M as she started to walk back to her post at the door, and then slipped inside. He wasn’t supposed to be playing their game, so he stuck to the cold stone walls on his way to an empty chair in a dark corner.

“Oi!” said someone, and Q froze mid-step. “Are you new? New kid!” Q turned, keeping his face carefully blank. There was no good way to do that. The room quieted somewhat, and Q fought the blush creeping up on his cheeks. He hoped they would think it was just from the sudden warmth of the fire. The boy who had shouted had a cheeky grin on, his arms stretched out behind the greenish-blue armchair facing the door across the room. 

“Yes?” Q said, voice perfectly amicable. 

“What’s your name?” he asked, cocking his head. “He looks like a Jamie, don’t you think?” 

A girl sitting next to him nodded, stroking her chin like an old master. “Or a Chris,” she mused. Q opened his mouth to reply, but they weren’t done. 

“How about an Ash?” interjected a boy sitting cross-legged on the ground, leaning back on his hands. Q felt rather uncomfortable under so many eyes. “Winston… something posh. Arthur?”

“He can’t be Arthur, we already have one. Remember? Mr. Wallace’s class?” chastised the first boy who had spoken. “I do like the A, though. Albert? No?” He peered closer. “No A? Shame. How about Sebastian, then?” Q shook his head slightly. “Theodore? William? Oliver?” Q winced. 

They erupted in crows of laughter. “Yes!” he shouted, throwing up his cards. As they fluttered down, the boy sitting on the floor grabbed at them. 

“Quiet down!” snapped someone sitting in the corner. He had an eyepatch over one eye, and was slouching in what looked like an uncomfortable wooden chair. The group in the middle exchanged dirty looks, some of them so calculating they made Q shiver. 

“Shut up, Chief.” The boy who had guessed Q’s real name stuck his tongue out and waved Q over. “Come on over. I’m Alek.” Alek had a nice smile, though it was a little too tight and politician-like to be real. 

“I’d like to be called Q, if that’s alright,” replied Q, trying not to sound timid as he walked over to the little group. There were about ten of them, of varying shapes and sizes. 

“Like the letter?”

“Yeah,” Q said, not offering up any explanation. He didn’t want to go into the details. 

“You’re like Ray, then?” Alek said, gesturing to the girl sitting on the arm of the chair. She waved slightly, brown hair swinging from the motion of it. She seemed to be chewing on something. “She keeps changing her name,” Alek continued. “Always something with R, though.” Q met her eyes and smiled a little, just a quick introductory thing that didn’t give anything away. 

“Sit down!” Ray said, gesturing to an empty chair furthest away from the fire. She blew a bubble from the gum in her mouth, popped it when it got big. There was just a little bit of mischief in her eyes, a twinkling that made Q hesitate. The chair was a dark red, plush and velvet. He sat in it anyway, trying to puzzle out the too-wide grins of his classmates. 

“Now. Q. What do we think?” Alek said, addressing his friends. 

“Nerdy,” mused the boy on the ground, cocking his head thoughtfully as he looked Q up and down. 

There were murmurs of agreement, and Q shifted slightly under their scrutiny. “Bound to be an orphan,” said a boy who was lounging on a dingy couch, cross necklace glinting in the orange light of the fire. 

“Why?” asked Alek. 

“All the early ones are orphans,” he answered, rolling slightly to move one of the red pieces on the checkerboard between him and the boy on the ground. “I’m Jonathan, by the way.” His eyes flicked up to Q’s, and he was startled by the golden hue dancing in the light of the fire. Jonathan’s enchanting eyes went down again, though, and Q was just left feeling vaguely unsettled by the melancholy of that sentence matched with the warmth of those eyes. 

“Not an orphan,” said a girl by the fireplace primly. “Would have reacted. Plus he doesn’t look it. All orphans look sad.”

Alek squinted at her, then between Jonathan and the boy he’d called Chief, behind him. “Do we look sad?” he asked, cocking his head. Then he peered at Q. “But he looks sad, too. Why doesn’t he look like an orphan, Nomi?”

She shrugged, still focused on the fire. Nomi. She looked… intent. “Blame it on experience. He’s not an orphan.” Now she looked at Q for a brief second, before going back to the fire. 

“I’m not,” he confessed, fidgeting slightly with his fingers. Everyone in the conversation’s eyes were drawn to his moving hands like magnets, and Q swallowed, stilling them nervously. The eyes still looked at his hands, keen and unmoving. 

“What else?” said Alek, crossing his legs and leaning back. Like magic, the intentness on Q’s slip up with his hands dissipated. “Obviously likes tea.”

_ How-- _

“Took a taxi here,” remarked Nomi, still staring into the fire.

“Yup,” agreed Jonathan, moving another piece in his game. “With a backpack.”

“Had a cat for a while, but doesn’t anymore.” That contemplative comment came from a boy who hadn’t spoken yet, the one reading a book in the chair next to the big red one Q was sitting in. 

“That’s a good one. Notice the burn on his thumb?” said the boy on the ground. “Smokes. Clumsily. Do you have any on you?” he said, looking at him with mischievous eyes. “Polite courtesy to share, you know.”

Q shook his head mutely. The burn on his thumb wasn’t caused by a cigarette, rather a mishap with wiring, but he didn’t see the need to tell them that. The only person that smoked in his house was his father, and any complaint about his father’s smoking habits would likely be refuted by a comment about how lucky he was to have a father. 

“Pity,” sighed the boy on the ground. 

“If you do have cigs, don’t give them to Frederick. We’re trying to curb his addiction,” added Alek. 

“Not an addiction,” Frederick muttered. 

“Anyone care to comment on the windbreaker?”

“Uses it as protection,” a different girl said immediately, looking up from her game of solitaire on a coffee table. Her voice was sharp and ringing, like bells. “Hides.”

“He has something in his pocket,” said the quiet boy with the book. “Can’t tell what it is. Best I’ve got is that it’s metal.”

Alek smiled. “Sharp eyes. I was thinking about the rips on the bottom. His family is rich enough to buy him a good windbreaker but doesn’t care enough to replace it.”

Q shifted. That was uncomfortably accurate. Before Fredrick, the boy on the ground, could interject with another observation, the door Q had come in was shoved open. 

The people in the conversations simultaneously looked, a uniform turning of heads. The boy in the doorway was older than Q, though not by a lot. Something about his stance screamed power, the way his hand clutched the door, tanned skin contrasting against the dark-stained wood. But his eyes. His eyes were even more striking than Jonathan’s, all ice and edges. Those eyes blinked when they saw Q. 

“New kid. Came in when you were gone,” explained Alek smugly, and those eyes flicked between Alek and Q. Q suddenly, instinctively, knew that however Alek might be the most charismatic, this new person was the leader. “Tea-drinker, smokes, loaded parents who don’t give a damn. Standard stuff.”

“Huh.” He seemed to pause, taking in the newcomer. His eyes raked up and down Q’s body in a vaguely provocative way that would have made Q blush had he not already been subjected to so much scrutiny. “What’s your name?” asked the leader. “I’m Bond. James Bond.” He walked behind Q’s chair, resting his forearms on the headrest so he could peer down at Q, who had to turn and strain his neck to see him. Those blue eyes were pinning Q to the ground, like an insect thumbtacked to a wall. 

“Q,” he said. “Like the letter.”

A little bit of interest flickered behind those walls of ice. “Q, why are you in my chair?”

Ah. So that was what the snickering had been about. “I was ordered to sit here,” he explained calmly. “By Ray. I can move, if you’d like.”

A little bit of a smirk quirked up the side of James’s mouth, and Q fought the urge to shiver under that examination. The previous minutes had been an inspection, sure, but none of the other’s eyes had penetrated him quite so smoothly. “I think you can continue to sit there,” he purred, “as long as you’re also in my lap.”

There was a silent, shocked pause, in which Q and James stared at each other, one with an unflappable cold gaze and the other with the consistency of a heat-gun, slowly melting that affronted air. “Oooh,” cooed Alek, laughing a little. “James  _ likes  _ you.” 

“Is that a good thing?” said Q evenly, eyes still matched to James’s, who had not moved to the slightest degree. Not even blinking. 

Then his mouth twitched up a little. “I would think it’s better than me  _ not _ liking you,” James said wryly. 

“I like him too,” murmured Nomi. 

“What about him do you like?” James asked, still not taking his eyes off of Q’s. 

She shrugged slightly. “Posh. Polite. Looks submissive, isn’t. And you know me. I always like the queer ones.” Q wasn’t entirely sure if she meant queer as in strange or queer as in gay, both of which were accurate. 

“I was just going. You can have your chair back,” said Q, standing with his notebook. He still was searching James’s eyes for something beyond cold ice and a smooth flirtatious smirk. Found nothing, but maybe he was just looking in the wrong spots.

James rose from his bent-over position as well, flirtatious expression morphing into one of entreaty. “No, please. Stay. Play chess with me.”

“Oooh, he  _ really  _ likes you,” remarked Alek. Q wondered what sort of standards a person would have to have to rank playing a game of chess more intimate than asking someone to sit in your lap. 

Q hesitated, glancing at the expectant group of broken children still looking between James and himself. They looked bored, and cold, and their sharp eyes didn’t match their relaxed positions. They were beautiful, Q realised with a start. Every one of them. Like shards of glass, reflective and shiny and dangerous. Could cut someone. Mrs. M had said not to play their game. Q would be afraid, would take her advice, if Q himself was not made of broken glass as well. “Okay,” he agreed. “One game.”

James gestured to an already-set-up chess board in the corner of the room, sequestered next to a bookshelf and a painting of a boat on rocky waves. “I trust you know how to play.”

“Yes,” Q murmured, taking his seat next to the black pieces. One of them, the queen, was knocked over, so he straightened it. James watched him with eyes like a particularly beautiful hawk, all golden feathers and piercing eyes. Q felt like shrinking, but he didn’t. “Do  _ you _ know how to play, James? Or will I have to teach you?”

James let out a little huff of laughter. “Cheeky.” He moved a pawn forward with surprisingly gentle fingers. Q could see a scar peeking out of his white sleeve, as golden as the rest of him. “What’s in the notebook?”

Q made a tiny shrug with his eyebrows and shoulders as he brought out a pawn as well. “I doubt you’d understand.”

“What? Assume I’m an idiot?” His voice was just as smooth as before, but Q, in all his limited societal capacity, knew something was off. Maybe it was in the way his next piece hit the board, a sharp click that didn’t match his previous gentleness. 

“In my defence, I don’t know you, so my estimate of your intelligence would likely be off. But no, it’s just because most of it’s written in code.” That was true. It was code. It just wasn’t in code. 

“Ah,” he chuckled, leaning forward to move his rook. “I wouldn’t understand it, then.” Another pause, two pieces were exchanged. “Nomi said you have parents.”

“That I do.”

“Good ones?” he asked, eyes flicking up from the rapidly cluttering board. They were making moves in quick succession now, at the beginning of the game. 

“Better than dead,” Q said neutrally, watching the board. 

James smiled, a smile that didn’t reach those blue eyes. “That doesn’t sound very good at all.” 

They were silent now, trading moves back and forth as they slowly became more invested in the game. After James had captured one of Q’s pawns, he looked up from the game. “You’re in year 12, right?”

That was unnerving. Q was normally told he either looked like he belonged in college or in year 9. “Yes,” he replied. He took a moment to consider the board before sliding his knight out of hiding, knowing it would be captured in two moves. A necessary sacrifice. “You?”

“The same. You’re late to Mirbook. Most people get here from year nine,” mused James thoughtfully, resting an elbow on the table and his chin on his hand. Year nine was the earliest year Mirbrook accepted students. 

“I wasn’t caught until three months ago,” was Q’s smooth reply. He waited for James to make a move, but he seemed to have forgotten about the game entirely, instead focusing that crystal gaze wholly on Q instead. He shifted uncomfortably, before remembering not to. 

“Caught implies you were doing whatever it was for longer than that,” James said. “What was it, then? Stealing? No, you have too much money. Vandalism? Drugs? Assault?”

Q was mortified, but he didn’t show it, only a shake of his head as he sat forward. He actually did want to see if James could guess the reason he’d been sent to Mirbrook. He’d deduced how the others had made their conjectures. The tea-drinking was from the spill on his jeans, the cat thing because Q had tiny scars from Hamlet’s claws from two years ago. But did Q have anything on him that screamed hacker? Anything that indicated his contraptions in his garage? Perhaps the metal shavings caught in his jumper, the slight calluses on his fingers. But would that be enough?

James contemplated him, and seemed to come up empty. “Tell you what. If you tell me yours, I’ll tell you mine,” he offered. He finally made a move, taking his white knight and vaulting it over one of Q’s pawns. 

“I don’t think that’s quite fair,” replied Q. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I don’t really care about your reason for coming to Mirbrook,” Q explained, sliding his rook forward. “And you do about mine. That makes my information worth more than yours.”

“Hm,” James hummed, focusing back on the chessboard. He frowned a little, and captured Q’s rook. Q glanced back down at the board. He smiled. He had check. Q sighed and with a casual air, and slid his queen into the available spot.

He watched him figure it out. James looked at the board, and that flirty smirk faded slightly. It was a little frightening, seeing the mask melt holes, but Q held strong. James let out a little huff of laughter. He seemed genuinely surprised, those golden features finally morphing into a less-than-prepared expression. “Clever.”

“Good game, James. And goodnight.” Q stood, hands still on the table. “I just spotted a rather appealing copy of King Lear, so I’m going to retire and go flip through it in hopes it has illustrations.” He smiled politely, the first smile he’d given James. 

“Q,” said James, as he turned to leave. “One more game?” He hesitated. James’s eyes bored into his again, those icy-blue eyes like meter-deep ice. There was a little smile to the edge of his mouth that had Q’s heart speeding up for unknown reasons. “You’re fun to play with,” he purred, and Q felt as though that sentence had a double meaning, but for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what it was. 

“Do I have to?” Q asked, folding his arms around himself. 

Now James’s lips widened into a grin. “Oh, I should think so. In order for me to return this.” Q’s notebook. He hadn’t realised he’d left it, in his rush to get away. James held it teasingly between his fingers. 

Q held out his hand. “Give it back,” he said, voice as even as his face. That cold mask shuttered back onto his face, hiding his rising panic. 

“Play me for it,” James replied, starting to set up the pieces of the chessboard. 

_ Don’t play their game.  _ Mrs. M had been right. Well. He was in it now, no way out. Q slid back into his seat, replacing pieces with a quick efficiency. 

“Well, you certainly want your notebook back,” James murmured. “There’s tension in every line of your body. You should work on that, it’s painfully obvious.” His voice was teasing, a light tone that made Q straighten even more. He said nothing, just waited for James to make the first move. 

The game was silent, and vicious, and Q played with calm precision and cold clicks of the pieces on the board. James was cleverer, this time, avoiding Q’s traps and pitfalls with elegant moves, setting a few of his own. Eventually they were at a standstill, Q waiting for James to make a move. The golden villain stroked his chin, eyes on the board and the various pieces. “You’re playing different than before,” he said quietly. 

“I should think so,” muttered back Q, his first words for the whole game. James’s eyes flicked up, pleased at getting a reaction out of his new… plaything. Was that what he was? It certainly felt like it. 

“What’s in here that’s got you so worried?” James marveled, running a finger over the plastic cover of Q’s precious notebook. Q kept himself impartial, blank eyes meeting his with a disinterested stare. James just smiled, reaching over to move one of his white pawns.

Q moved his next piece in silence, and James matched him, both their number of pieces dwindling. James was good. Surprisingly good. 

Eight moves later, James was in check. Q stared blankly at the board. James leaned forward, elbows on the table. His fingers scratched lazy patterns on the notebook, waiting for Q to react. His eyes twinkled smugly, and Q felt a blush of humiliation rise in his cheeks despite his attempts to stop it. “Good game,” Q eventually said, already mourning the loss of his meticulously-sketched-out blueprints and jotted-down code. 

“Hm,” hummed James, still looking at him like Q was an interesting specimen, something to be studied and torn apart. “I won’t read it,” he promised. “I’m not that cruel. And you can win it back tomorrow. I’m in room seven, if you want to stop by. Though I think the headmaster has something planned for most of the day tomorrow.”

That sent a wave of relief through Q’s body. He could win it back. And he would. He’d slipped up somehow, done something wrong in his moves that had allowed James to win. Q would figure it out, fix it, and then get back to work. Just like normal. “Alright,” Q said, sticking out his hand. “It’s a deal.”

James shook it, smiling a tiny, warm, smile that was infinitely more genuine than any of his others. “It’s a deal.”


	2. Further Consideration

After their after-dinner games, everyone had gone to bed without so much as a scuffle. James went to bed restlessly, thinking about the next day and about Chief and his cronies and about the new kid. He felt at the notebook in the dark, fingers running down the worn edges of the paper, daring himself to switch on the light and read it. For some reason he didn’t. 

He fell asleep at about midnight, but he could live off of twenty minutes of sleep if needed, so he wasn’t tired. In the morning, James ate his pancakes thoughtfully, looking at Q. He looked… blank. Impartial. Bored, almost. The way he gazed at his surroundings intrigued James, the way he assessed everything with a calculating stare. Some of James’s enemies had that look, but Q’s version of it was ever so slightly different. When the Chief or his cronies looked around, they had an opinion on everything, a judgemental attitude that irked James to no end. When Q assessed the table, the table was a table, not a dingy table. When he looked at the fork in his hands, it was a fork, not a plain, rusted fork. When he looked at James and Alek and Nomi, they were James and Alek and Nomi, not the James who had scars or the Alek who lied or the Nomi who hated herself. It was refreshing. Like a blank slate. 

The last night had been fun, a teasing little game that ensured James’s continued companionship in Q. He hadn’t approached James at breakfast, hadn’t done anything except sit and eat his pancakes quietly, despite only being across the table from him. There were only sixteen people at Mirbrook so far, so the early ones ate at only two tables, two of twenty in the long, cold hall. Call it pack mentality. James watched Q, even as he talked and joked with the other 00s. That was what they called themselves, his little group of… not friends. None of them had friends. Just people who didn’t actively want anything out of him other than talk and mutually assured protection. But they called themselves the 00s because of an inside joke, a conversation in their second year. 

_ “Orphans, all of us,” mused Peter, slouched in his chair and fiddling with his pen, flipping it up and down, over and over. They were crowded around in the library, having just participated in a healthy dose of conversation and lapsed back into relative silence.  _

_ Jonathan nodded, face kind and slightly sad, like normal. “No mothers.” _

_ Frederick tapped his knee, fidgeting like he did when his guard was down. “No fathers.” _

_ “Zilch,” muttered Alek.  _

_ “Zip,” agreed Scarlet.  _

_ “Zero,” added James. “Two zeroes. Double-zeroes.” _

_ Nomi smiled. “Double-Os.” _

Ray had joined them last year, a girl who changed her name every month or so. Robin, Reeve, Riley, Ricky… James was pretty sure she was working her way up to coming out as non-binary, but that wasn’t why she wasn’t one of the 00s. She had parents, people who didn’t understand why she broke things and spray painted smiley faces onto walls. Parents nonetheless.

“So,” said Alek, poking into his eggs, directly across the table from James. “You’ve been quiet, James.” His voice was curious, mocking, even. Had James had less control over his expression, he might have blushed. The rest of the 00s quieted. 

“Just taking in the conversation,” replied James smoothly, taking a bite out of a piece of substandard bacon. It was no wonder the kids with good parents stayed home as long as they could, the food at Mirbrook was shit. 

The side of Alek’s politician's smile quirked up into a smirk. “Really? Repeat the last thing said. Or, even the conversation topic. I doubt you could even do that, you were so fazed out.”

James chewed, looking Alek dead in the eyes. He was always so argumentative this time of year. Something about coming back to Mirbrook made Alek angry, though he kept it hidden. James had asked, once, but Alek’s ever-present smile had dropped and James had seen why he was always lying. He was angry, underneath all that charm. “I wasn’t paying attention,” James confessed, and he heard Scarlet giggling. “Sorry. I’m just…”

“Thinking about Q?” Nomi guessed, eyes still focused on her breakfast behind the fringe of her bangs. “You keep looking at him.”

“He’s new,” James protested. “It’s interesting.”

“You like him,” Peter said, matter-of-fact as he folded his napkin in his lap. He was like that. All scientific, approached everything with a process. “You flirted with him last night,” he continued.

“James flirts with everyone,” said Scarlet. 

Frederick nodded. “He does. Even tried to get into  _ my _ pants last year.” 

James looked down at his breakfast. “He plays chess,” he remarked, not quite sure what he was getting at.

“Of course he plays chess, just look at him,” huffed Scarlet. James met her eyes in a glance, and she looked back down at her fork. “Plus, we all play chess. What’s so different about him?”

James shrugged. “He plays the game like he’s not playing chess.”

“What?”

He sighed, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. “He plays chess like he’s teaching someone else how to do it. All careful moves and tiny traps. I didn’t know what he was doing half the time. He plays the game well.”

Peter blinked. Alek raised an eyebrow. Frederick chuckled. “Damn. You’re in a weird mood today, mate.”

James shrugged again, shoving another piece of shitty pancake into his mouth. Maybe he  _ was  _ in a weird mood today. Whatever. 

Before the conversation could resume, the heavy wooden doors of the dining room banged open, revealing Mrs. M and her boss, Mr. Prime. James had always disliked the headmaster, and always had pitied Mrs. M for having to put up with all his rules and regulations. Mr. Prime had a healthy dislike for all the 00s too, perhaps because he hated children and hated orphans even more. “Alright, children,” he snapped, and forks clattered to their plates. Mr. Prime stopped in front of the tables, hands formally at his sides. He had been in the military. “Because of yesterday’s  _ fiasco _ -”

Frederick and Scarlet fist-bumped below the table, where Mr. Prime couldn’t see. They’d stolen the plans for the scavenger hunt and had re-hidden all the clues in various places. A good joke, largely pointless, but it had been worth it to see Raoul shouting at the clue paper, confused out of his mind. 

“We are going to try something new today,” Mr. Prime continued. “Chores. I’m not even going to disguise it. The northwest tower and the attic need to be cleaned by tonight, to my satisfaction. Or discipline shall ensue, for all of you. I’ll leave you to figure out which you are going to first.” He turned smartly and walked out of the door, hapless M trailing behind. 

James and Chief, or Le Chiffre to his friends, met eyes across their tables. “I’m not doing anything with you,” ordered James, in the dead quiet of the hallway. His words echoed. 

“Neither am I with you,” said Chief in that disgustingly entitled voice of his. “Rather, I think you lot are going to clean both of them, as this is your fault, and we are going to the library.” He stood like it was final. James pushed out his chair and stood as well. 

“No,” James growled. “How is that fair?”

“Well, your lot are the ones who fucked up the scavenger hunt,” Chief snapped back. 

Alek rose to his feet. “We didn’t!” he cried, the perfect picture of affrontedness. “It was  _ your _ cronies.”

“Oh, yeah? What were you doing yesterday, then? Running around giggling,” hissed Raoul, one of Chief’s partners. 

“Looking for the damn clues,” snapped James, marching around the table to face Chief. He looked unimpressed, which only served to stoke James’s anger. God, the rich bastard had everything. Couldn’t he just get his posse to do it, not make a huge scene out of everything?

Chief huffed, looking askance as he folded his arms. “Bond. You expect me to believe that? You lot are so--”

“One more word and I’ll hit you so hard both your eyes will bleed,” James growled. 

Chief raised an eyebrow. 

“Why doesn’t this table clean the attic, and your table clean the tower?” mused a voice from behind James. Chief’s brow furrowed as he looked over James’s shoulder.

James didn’t turn, didn’t dare, but he knew it was Q. 

“Who the hell are you?” said Chief, incredulous. 

“Does it matter?” said Q, which was the best possible answer he could have given. “Listen, if we split up you two won’t have to deal with each other. Plus we can tell Mr. Prime about our decision, so if one group doesn’t do well, they’ll get the punishment instead of all of us. It makes sense,” he said mildly. James could see him adjusting his glasses in his mind’s eye. 

Chief’s expression changed, but James couldn’t quite tell what it meant. Perhaps it just had gotten more blank. Chief glanced back up at James. “Good enough for me. You, orphan?” The way he said orphan made James’s blood boil, but Q’s solution was good enough that he was able to shove it deep and not react. 

“As long as I won’t see that creepy eye of yours,” James snapped, “I’m good.”

Chief glared, but he turned back to his table, gesturing for them to get up. 

James’s table was silent, contemplative. Frederick had stopped fidgeting, as they looked at Q, who stood up remarkably well under their silent assessment. James saw his throat bob in the cold morning sunlight, but other than that he gave no reaction. “You were right,” murmured Alek, after a moment. “He does play the game well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk where I'm going with this but *shuffles through vague google docs* I've got some... uh... *rifles through scribbled quotes from 2 AM* uhh... fuck... *scrolls through word document entitled 'fanfiction ideas'* uhh,,, fuck I've got nothing


	3. Games

Q was beginning to think he’d done something wrong. They had put their dishes away, all the while being glared at by the disgruntled lunch lady, Ms. Harmon, who for some reason melted every time she saw Alek. But then the little group had started up the stairs, Frederick and that girl Q hadn’t met yet (the one with the long blonde hair down to her waist) chatting incessantly near the back. They were the only ones that were talking. 

James looked at him. Q had seen him glancing at him while they ate breakfast, but he’d thought it had just been him wondering if Q was going to approach him and demand the notebook back. This was different. Colder, more watchful. Like he’d realised something. 

Q did his best to act unaffected, smiling at James and Alek and Nomi when they watched him, but he was afraid some of his worries might have slipped through his carefully maintained mask. He never was very good at lying. 

The attic was… cluttered. There was one window, and it only lent a little light from the storm outside into the dark, cramped, room. The ceilings were low; Alek and the blonde girl kept bumping their heads. Q spun a dusty globe idly while he waited for Alek or James to start assigning orders. They stayed quiet, however, rifling through papers and boxes with the air of a curious child instead of a hardworking adult. Q, leaning into his shy side, didn’t say a word, however much he wanted to. He’d already done enough. 

Then Q saw the books, in boxes underneath the singular window. Crouching, he dusted off the cover of a red novel, coughing slightly. Edgar Allen Poe. Q flipped it open, raising a brow when he saw the date. He rifled through the rest of the box, slowly realising there were more than twenty different types of books in that one box alone. There were five boxes in total. Q emptied them all out efficiently, sitting cross-legged surrounded by volumes and novels of all shapes and sizes. There was a lot of english literature, so Q designated one of the boxes to be for that alone, and made combinations of types for the rest of the five boxes. And he began the almost-mindless task of sorting. Shakespeare went in the english lit box, anything Ray Bradbury went in science fiction-- _ oooh is that a biography of Winston Churchill? _

“How are you sorting those?” said a voice from behind Q. Q blanked for a name, then remembered. 

“Ray. Oh, uh…” Q cleared his throat. “By topic. English lit, sci-fi and fantasy, biographies and exposition, philosophy and science journals, maths and realistic fiction.”

“Do you want labels? I have good handwriting.”

Q smiled. “Sure.”

Ray crouched, pulling a sharpie out of her pocket. Her tongue stuck out of her red-lipsticked mouth as she wrote  _ English Lit  _ in curling, neat cursive. Q cleared his throat, and she glanced up. “Ray. I’d appreciate… I don’t know some people’s names,” Q said, the words coming out in a quiet rush. He felt heat in his cheeks. 

“Oh!” she chirped, and Q’s body relaxed at her positive tone. “Sure. Tell me which ones you do know.”

“That’s Alek,” said Q, pointing. “And Nomi. And James. And Frederick. And Jonathan.”

She clapped her hands delightedly. “That’s good! Five plus me. Well that’s Scarlet,” she began, pointing. The blonde girl with the green eyes, chatting incessantly with Frederick. “And that’s Peter.” The one with the book, last night. He was rifling through a box of trinkets, half-blurry to Q’s eyes from the cloud of dust he was kicking up. 

“I… listen. I’m new.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. 

Q cracked a little smile, despite himself. “Funny. But, last night… I don’t know. There was a lot to unpack there, and I don’t know how to…” He gestured helplessly, looking up from the books. “I don’t know how to--to talk to you people.”

“You’re talking to me right now,” Ray said, serious. Her clear hazel eyes didn’t leave Q’s, and he felt that strange sense of inspection, like he’d felt in the middle of that circle of people, or when playing chess, or even with Mrs. M, who’d seen right through his act. “But yeah,” she sighed, eyes finally breaking from his. “I get what you mean. It took me a while. Get them to trust me. I mean, if you even want to be with our gang.” Those eyes flickered up to Q’s, who was watching Ray’s careful expression keenly. “There’s tons of others.”

Q shrugged. “I dunno. Nobody’s really here yet. But I’m definitely not going to hang out with Chief. He seemed… rude.” 

Ray laughed, head knocking back and brown curls tumbling over her shoulders. The sound was like warm light through the attic, and Q saw James glance over from the corner curiously. “Okay then,” said Ray, smiling still. “I think… I think the key is just listening.”

“Listening?” asked Q politely as she scrawled  _ Biographies and Exposition  _ in that neat hand onto the next box. “How do you mean?”

She shrugged. “Listening. Being an observer, for a little. I dunno, I’m really not the best person to ask. They just sort of… adopted me. Last year. I was in a bit of a rough spot, and they helped.” Her words danced over those words, carefully constructed to seem careless. Q could tell, in the way her eyes avoided his, that it’d be a while before she ever told him of her ‘rough spot’. That was okay. He’d probably never tell anyone here about his, either. 

“Do you have a favorite genre?” asked Q easily, going back to sorting his books. “I like sci-fi, but that’s just because I think better writers are drawn to it.”

Ray gasped, mock-offended, and Q felt the tension ease. “Excuse you? Fiction? I’m a biography and historical records person, all the way.”

“Really?” mused Q. “I’ve never heard that one before. Biographies.”

She nodded in assent, picking up the biography of Winston Churchill he’d seen earlier. “I just think it’s so fascinating. These were actual people, who actually did stuff, in our actual world. Fiction just seems so… weird.”

“It’s not weird!” protested Q, pointing to the Ray Bradbury books. “That author, half of his books are critiques on society. Fahrenheit 451, for example--”

“Wow,” said James from behind them both. “Some real academic study going on over here.” 

Ray giggled, brown hair falling in front of her face as she propped up a box to write its label. Q didn’t really know what to do, just cleared his throat and gave an awkward smile, glancing up once at those golden features before going back to the sorting. James squatted down between them, picking up a random book and turning it over to the front. His brow raised. “Ah. Fifty Shades of Grey.”

Q glanced over at the book. “Romance. I guess it’d go in realistic fiction.”

“Have you read it?” asked James, leaning over to put it into the correct box. 

“I have,” said Ray, reaching over for the last unlabeled box. “Disgusting. Full of… body parts. And spit. Lots of spit.” Her expression was contorted in disgust, and she stuck her tongue out. 

Q laughed. God, he hadn’t laughed in a while. It felt good. “Right. Yeah, I remember that too,” he chuckled, slotting another book into its correct slot. 

Ray stood, brushing dust off of her blue overalls. “Well. It’s been real, Q, but I think I’m going to go help Freddie and Scarlet, they’re doing nothing but bickering.” It was true, the blonde girl was standing with her hands on her slim hips while Frederick shouted something about windows. Q had thought they had a good relationship, but maybe not. Maybe they were the type of friends who just got into arguments all the time. Ray waved a little goodbye before marching over to the chattering duo. 

“Do they do that often?” asked Q, looking between James and Ray’s friends. 

“Hm?” said James, finally settling into a sitting position, reading the back of a book he’d found. He looked up, blue eyes flickering between Q and the trio now arguing. “Oh, yeah. I rather think they enjoy bickering, actually.”

Q hummed in acknowledgement, picking up another book and flipping to the description. 

“Not going to ask for your notebook back?” said James, not looking up from his book.

“I thought I’d come by after dinner,” he responded, voice even. He leaned over to place the apparently biographical volume into the allotted box. “That alright?”

“Alone?” mused James. “In my room?”

Q felt his cheeks heat at the insinuation, and James’s knowing smile wasn’t helping matters. “That’s what you suggested. And I don’t think you’d try... anything.”

“Why not? Is my inclination towards criminal activity not clear enough?”

He shrugged, then thought about it more, sitting back on his heels. “You know, I hadn’t really thought about it,” he started slowly. “Maybe you would try something. And you do look much stronger than me, so a struggle wouldn’t be an issue. Also, this place is so out-of-date, there’s no way there’s security cameras, and it’d be a blatant violation of privacy to put them in student’s rooms. The only incriminating thing I can think of would be marks and bruises, but who would I tell? Who would care, really? I don’t have friends here. Hm. Yes, I’m the perfect victim,” Q mused. After that speech, he slotted another book into another box. 

James leaned forward, hand under his chin, watching Q with curious eyes. “Seems like a bad decision, then. To risk it.”

He shrugged, thin shoulders going up and down. “I’m going to come anyway.”

James’s expression changed. Q couldn’t tell in what way, but it contorted. Maybe it had just gotten more blank. “Why?” James asked, sudden after a pause. 

“Because I don’t think you will. You don’t have much reason to. Plus, like you said. I really want my notebook back.”

Now James smiled, a slow smile, an impressed smile. They sorted the rest of the books in silence, making quick work of the hundred-something volumes left in Q’s gigantic pile. When Q finally looked back over his shoulder, the attic seemed to have cleaned itself. There wasn’t much organization, but the baubles and trinkets previously left on the desks had been shoved into drawers and boxes. The windowsill had been dusted, the rafters cleared of cobwebs, the floor swept, and the surfaces shined. All in all, a pretty bang-up job. 

Maybe, once he got his notebook back, he’d consider joining this gang after all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is the furthest thing from canon but I really, really, love writing boarding school AUs with lots of characters and this was just too perfect in my head.


	4. Let Go

James had always been fascinated by the concept of potential. Potential to do something good, to do something bad, to do nothing or everything. Everything had potential. That was one of the reasons most kids got sent to Mirbrook, they had too much potential to be put into jail or juvy. James had potential, like everyone else. Potential to kill or be killed, to live until he was a hundred or to die young. Every time he stood at the edge of a cliff, he had the potential to jump. Every inch of his unblemished skin had the potential to become as scarred as the rest of him. Every moment he lived had the potential to be the tragic story the rest of his life had been. Maybe he’d escape those grey moments someday. 

For now, his eyes saw the grey walls of Mirbrook, his skin felt the stale grey air settling in the cobblestones, and his ears heard the grey echoes of his friends in the hallways. They’d dispersed after they’d cleaned up the attic, Scarlet and Freddie running off to probably cause more mischief (they liked to shuffle around the paintings to confuse the staff), Ray going to the library to help Ms. Pepper sort books and the rest of them headed to the common room to play games. All of them were old enough that Mr. Prime and Mrs. M didn’t feel the need to send a chaperone, not that they could have, they were so understaffed. Besides, even if they could, the double-Os would have lost them soon enough. They’d snuck around Mirbrook to know every twist of its confusing halls, despite Scarlet and Freddie switching the paintings around. 

James didn’t know where he was going, even though he knew the castle walls like he knew his own body. His feet liked to take him interesting places. Mirbrook had been built and rebuilt something like six times, each time as something different. First a school, as per, then it was abandoned, and then they tried to renovate it as a prison, and then it was a hideout in some war, and then a school again. Whatever the order, Mirbrook’s halls confused even the most wily of adventurers. Unless you’d been there since year nine. 

When he reached the spiral staircase, scarred hand sliding down the smooth wood banister, he knew where he was going. He could smell the stale chlorine by the third flight. 

The pool had been made in the forties, an ugly mess of teal tiles and paislies, or it would have been if the lights worked. They didn’t, and the only light spilled in from the spiral staircase in the secret janitor’s office and the other entrance, through the double doors of the locker rooms. James heard his own footsteps in the darkness, loud against the muffled silence of the water. He knelt in the middle, where neither of the sources of light reached. He leaned over, dipping a finger into the freezing water. No longer heated, the pool sometimes froze over, in the winter. The pool was wider than it was long, and James couldn’t see across it, probably couldn’t even see to the middle, no matter how his eyes strained to. 

Somewhere in the middle, he knew, was a love knot. He’d considered going diving for it, feeling around in the murky waters for the necklace. But he didn’t have a light that would survive underwater, or even a flashlight, and Mrs. M would certainly know something was up if he walked the long halls back to his room soaking wet. The double-Os would know what he’d been doing, as well. He couldn’t stand their pitying glances, even on the best of days, and then he’d have to stand the humiliation of knowing they were whispering the story to Q. 

James stood, shaking his wet hand. What a story it was too, a proper Shakespearian tragedy. He’d heard that too often, about what a  _ tragic  _ and  _ heartbreaking  _ sequence of events it had been. James hated that, hated absolutely anybody commenting on what had been his whole life as if it were a one-dimensional play or some sort of movie, a pitiful story they watched and then moved on. They didn’t know. They could guess at what he was feeling, if they were clever enough, but he somehow hated that more, them watching his inner workings. 

James picked up a loose pebble left on the concrete, a stray chipped-off bit of teal tile. He tossed it into the blue-black water, heard the watery  _ clink  _ echo in the huge room. Sticking his hands in his pockets, he chewed his lip, thinking, as the shimmery white ripples dazzled the room. 

Why had he come down here? There was no logical reason. He should hate this room, even fear it, the things it had brought about. And he did, a little bit, deep down in the complicated tangle of his gut. Mostly, though, he just felt a sort of simmering anger, like how he felt when someone looked over his file and sighed in disappointment. James turned from the water and made his way back to the stairs, stepping delicately over the dusty broken glass of the janitor’s door. He marched up the spiral staircase into the grey-white light of the hallway, somewhat lost in his own mild thoughts. 

Now he knew where he was going. Back to the warm common room, back to games and puzzles and daring escapes from Le Chiffre and his friends. Away from cold, dark pools and silver necklaces. 

**Author's Note:**

> whoo, that's a long chapter. sorry it got that long. please leave a comment if you feel compelled!


End file.
